The sound of trees, a poem by Robert Frost
I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
I cannot say enough about Robert Frost. I even had a vivid dream about him once, not too long ago, whereupon he refused to have a selfie taken of me and him. I learned, from him, pace as well as belonging, I learned that it's okay to speak your tongue, the way your folks do. Not only that it's okay but that it's best. I learned that tradition is important, because I noticed how Mr Frost at the beginning spoke Shakespearean and then in later books spoke himself, spoke 'Vermontian'. I will never thank him enough. I learned his sonnets by heart and later imitated them, before I was able to try my own with my own tongue. Then I did. I wrote a few I actually liked, until another influence washed over me: a Jamaican one, and a Capetonian one, rolled into one. And now here I am, with all this sitting in my lap.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
I cannot say enough about Robert Frost. I even had a vivid dream about him once, not too long ago, whereupon he refused to have a selfie taken of me and him. I learned, from him, pace as well as belonging, I learned that it's okay to speak your tongue, the way your folks do. Not only that it's okay but that it's best. I learned that tradition is important, because I noticed how Mr Frost at the beginning spoke Shakespearean and then in later books spoke himself, spoke 'Vermontian'. I will never thank him enough. I learned his sonnets by heart and later imitated them, before I was able to try my own with my own tongue. Then I did. I wrote a few I actually liked, until another influence washed over me: a Jamaican one, and a Capetonian one, rolled into one. And now here I am, with all this sitting in my lap.
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| Robert Frost |
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